A Candy Red Letter
by My Vantilene
Summary: You are Karkat Vantas. Right now your life depends on an unknown ancestor, your matesprit, and the Dave human. Frankly, death seems a lot more tolerable. Karkat x Terezi.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: D: Neya-ha.

You are Karkat Vantas.

Right now, you should be in the quasi-safety of your base located in the Veil. But you are not. Instead, you are fighting alongside either Sollux or Gamzee's ancestor — you can't really discern which — against a dozen feral imps. He hides his face with a black hood and his body is draped in an onyx robe, so you can't tell what blood color he has because everything above the nose is a mystery. After a few imps explode into grist, you decide it couldn't be Gamzee's ancestor, because there would be no way to fit his horns under there without tearing the fabric. He could still be Equius's, but he's wielding a cane and he wouldn't have the patience for such a weapon. It couldn't be Terezi's because the ancestor is so clearly male. He's talked to you a bit, but the voice didn't really help you that much.

You're wearing Terezi's shirt at the moment and it's a couple sizes too small for you, so it's clinging to your skin and you're having a hard time using your sickles as is. It was terrible shenanigans that got you to wear it, all of which you are assured Vriska had a hand in, but despite the lack of comfort, you're glad you're wearing it. The ancestor is convinced that you are a tealblood's descendant.

Yes, you have considered the possibility that the ancestor is your own, but his voice is so calm and he hasn't said a single curse word, going as far as rebuking you for it. He's too courteous and it's driving you up the belfry.

Three imps inexplicably manage to team up on you and you're sent skidding to the floor. Your name is called loudly and you're absolutely sure of the rock your head hit because there is no way you heard concern in the ancestor's tone. You feel your head, and to your great relief there's no blood coming out. You close your eyes and take a long, celebratory drink of air. The thought of bleeding here and now and in front of him terrified you out of your wits. It registers distantly that your side is throbbing.

You open your eyes and absorb the fact that you're sprawled out all over the floor, and all you can see of the troll is his feet. You don't understand why he isn't moving because you remember being certain that your fall had some effect on him. Finally, when he does move, it's hesitantly backwards, but then he moves carefully around you and you can't see his feet anymore because he's behind you. The distant throbbing of your side gets much louder. You turn to address it, and once you see it, your head lolls back to the ground with a quiet thud. You're bleeding. Of course, you're bleeding. You can never catch a break. What's worse, the ancestor's going to be twice as hard to fight off with your side flowing a river of candy red blood.

There's no movement on his part and you can't take his silence anymore. He's disgusted, of course he's disgusted, but does he have to leave you drowning in anticipation?

"Ditch me or kill me already. Quick. Before the suspense fucking does." You cry in an effort to sound deadpan, but the attempt rolls off your tongue like sincere trepidation.

He doesn't utter a word, but there's a flutter of fabric moving and it sounds too loud in your ears. You faintly wonder where are all the imps had gone. Only faintly, because most of your thoughts are concentrated on the absolute truth that he has chosen to kill you. If he was going to simply ditch you, he would've done so by now.

But he surprises you. He hoists you up onto his shoulder and begins running, slashing imps left and right as he does.

"Oh. Oh, I get it," you can use deadpan more freely now that some of the fear has dispersed, "Public execution." But then your sarcastic retort starts to get to you and your voice settles into something that teeters on bitter acceptance, "Good thinking. Don't want the credit of capturing a mutant freak to go to waste. Oh. Wait. There are only twelve trolls left, and they all unfortunately don't give a damn."

He doesn't utter a word.

* * *

He stumbles upon a grey complex on one of the meteors and gets to a white room before stopping his sprint. The room looks reminiscent of a kitchen, but there aren't any food appliances and you're positive there is no food. But there is something in the cabinets.

He sets you down on the alabaster countertop and even though you can't see his, you're pretty sure he's looking you dead in the eye.

"Sit." He commands as if it's something you weren't doing before. You suppose he means stay, though, so that's what you do. He rummages through the cabinets until he finds a red plastic container. He opens it and pulls out an unmarked, dark brown bottle. He unscrews the cap and presses a white rag to the top as he tips it over and in one, fluent motion, sends it upright again. He lifts up your shirt and basically stabs the wound with it.

"Why did you lie to me?" You suppose the words were supposed to sting as much as the antiseptic does on your wounds, but it holds no potency compared to the burn that flares up your abdomen. But he sounds dark and angry and he is in current possession of liquid fire in a bottle, so you don't talk back to him. It's a departure from his usually mild-mannered and understanding disposition, and you can't comprehend why he isn't as understanding now.

"I didn't know how you'd take it." You answer calmly and bite back the retort that itches in your throat.

"It isn't good to lie." He still sounds angry as he replenishes his supply of analgesic with a dab and you assume he's pushing it against your wound harshly on purpose, "No matter what the repercussions."

"What good would it have done? You know now."

"That's not exactly the scenario I wanted to learn of your ancestry from."

"Oh. So you know my ancestor?"

"I did." He mercifully screws the lid back on the bottle and opens a pack of gauze, "Now, where did you get the Libra shirt from and tell me the truth this time."

"It's my matesprit's."

"You…you have a matesprit?"

"Yeah."

"This early? How old are you?"

He sounds purely conversational, his curiosity subsiding from the previous inquisition, but it still offends you in its own way.

"Six."

"Oh." He wraps the gauze around the wound gently, "Well, how is she? A tealblood, hmm? Can't say I was close to any of them, so I probably didn't know her ancestor formally."

"How is she? She's too fucking perfect for her own good. And she knows it too."

He's finished dressing the wound and steps back a moment to inspect his work.

"Why didn't you want me finding out about your blood color?" The question hits you in left field. Whatever that idiom means.

"Um. It's a color nonexistent on the hemospectrum. If anyone found out about it, I'd be dead."

"Really? Things still haven't changed." He muttered under his breath, "Then that sacrifice was truly in vain."

He finagles the bandage secured around your waist and cuts off the end of it.

"But, Karkat, none of your friends mind, right? Your blood doesn't matter to them?"

"Kidding me? They don't know."

"None of them?"

"Well. Terezi, my matesprit, knows. But that's only because we***** — um, that's only because she can…smell really well."

"Smell?"

"She's blind…it's, um, really hard to explain if you didn't know her ancestor."

"I said I didn't know her formally. It's not impossible that I maybe ran into her here or there."

"Yeah, fuck, I hope my ancestor did. She's crazy about my blood."

"Really? Is that why you two are matesprits? Just because she pities your blood?"

He's starting to sound a little angry again, but like hell if you know why.

"Oh, no. She doesn't pity me because of my blood color, fuck, she doesn't pity me at all. She sees with taste and smell, and candy apple is her favorite flavor, that's why she likes it. Also, it may sound crazy, and maybe my ancestor might've mentioned it to you, but our relationship is outside of—"

"Outside of the existing four quadrants, yes, I believe I've been around him long enough to grow accustomed to that concept. Do you know the greenblood?"

"Nepeta? Yeah, sure."

"He had a word for her…made up a quadrant for it…think it was called _Sister, _if I'm correct."

"Really? Damn, I haven't made up one for Terezi."

"Yes. And the jadeblood?"

"Kanaya?"

"I believe so. There was a quadrant for her too…_Mother_."

"Wait, my ancestor was getting it on with Nepeta _and_ Kanaya? Fuck, I mean, shit, they're both cool, and Kanaya's probably one of the only sane ones, but I never thought about it like that."

"Yes, well." He stood back, "Why don't you hop down from there and see how the wound feels?"

"Shit, okay."

Big mistake on your part, once you jumped off, your waist lurched and your legs slipped out from underneath you, leaving you sprawled out on the floor once again. An angry wave of heat sifted through you and elicited a loud scream. He was on his knees in a second, inspecting your wound. You don't remember the bandage being quite that red.

"I take it you can't walk."

You shake your head, giving him the harshest patronizing glare you can muster to salvage some of your own dignity.

"Well. We've got a long way to go, then I can give you some stitches. But right now we've got to get to our destination."

You're being lifted again, but this time your two legs are resting on his shoulders, and you have to throw your arms around his neck to keep from falling off.

"You never did tell me who we're meeting at this 'destination.'"

"That's because I don't even know."

"WHAT?"

"But I have a reliable source. There's really no need to worry."

"Who?"

"Well, we better be off."

He doesn't answer your question, rather picks up his cane and begins walking. It barely registers to you that the cane is topped with a white dragon head.

_AN:_

_Yeah. This is probably a multi-chapter fic. Really, it depends on reviews. If anyone can tell, I stole part of this from, I, er, ugh, mean, was inspired by the fic "Looking Down." _


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Bite my cape.

_I fell asleep in the locker room after track practice, and it threw my entire day off. Yup, that's the excuse I'm sticking with. Sorry for the late update._

The world around you is hazy and the fragments of a horrorterror are still clinging to your conscious mind. You blink a couple times as your eyes adjust to your new surroundings, and you take in the briny substance pooling from your mouth. The turbulence of your ride effectively jogs your memory as to where exactly you are, and a candy red hue rises to your cheeks.

Great. Not only did you fall asleep on the ancestor's back, but you also drooled all over him. Maybe if you somehow cleaned it off his robe covertly, he wouldn't notice…

"Did you have a nice nap?"

You know his disposition is supposed to be all good-natured and shit, but it's palpable in his tone he's…lightly mocking you…? Whatever it is, it makes you feel uncomfortable.

It hits you that while you can't remember most horrorterrors when you wake, without the sopor slime, they're extremely graphic and terrifying. It's possible you screamed in your sleep. Or wept. Or maybe even started convulsing violently.

"It was fucking beautiful. Just of a couple treshicutioners having a good Faygo together, you know."

"Sounded exactly like it."

Shit. You did something.

"What do you mean…sounded?"

"It's just the way you…Never mind."

"You're still walking." You say, desperate to change the subject, "Aren't you tired yet?"

"Nah…You're nice and light." He cackles. If the guy weren't on your side, you'd cup his ears.

"Fuck you."

"Would you rather I call you fat?"

"I'd rather you keep your damn comments to yourself, got it?"

"There's that mouth and temper of yours again…"

"Shut up, I—" you can barely hide the yawn that escapes. You swear you can _feel_ the bastard smiling.

"You might want to get some more rest before you try to argue again."

"No, fuck, I —" you can feel your eyelids growing heavy again, but everything in your gut is telling you to fight it, "I should not be this tired."

"Your wounds won't heal right if you don't sleep. You've lost a lot of blood."

"Not enough, apparently." You whisper underneath your breath. You're sure he heard the comment because your head is close to his ears and it would be impossible not to, but he doesn't rebuke you like he's done in the past. A minute later, he sighs.

"You can put your head on my shoulder, if you like. It can't be too comfortable sleeping with your neck back like that."

"Hell no." You say without hesitation, "That's stupid."

It only takes a minute for your breathing to slow and your head to come to rest on his right shoulder, despite your best attempts.

* * *

Karkat: Be the tealblood.

* * *

"So who are we meeting here, anyway?" You ask, finagling the yellow chalk in your fingers to demonstrate at least some skill. It seems your ancestor has all the skill, aside from drawing.

All of them.

Aside from drawing.

It gives you pleasure, rubbing it in her face.

"Don't know. My source is good, though."

"The Helmsman?"

"Damn. Forgot how intuitive we are. Yeah, it's him…uh…Pollux*****, right?"

"Sollux. But right. So it's not them we're meeting?"

"No…at least not yet. We've got a limited amount of time before the Handmaid shows up, so we need to get our plan hatched first. Intel says he's the best option. He'll be here after the Handmaid."

"So is the plan to dispatch the Handmaid?"

"No. She's on our side, but we have to have at least an outline before she gets here, because the Condense will be here exactly twenty-four hours after her arrival."

"How do you know all this?"

"Prospit. Ours was never destroyed, so when all of us were supposed to die, we really just awoke as our dream selves. We didn't have long to enjoy it, though…"

"Because that's when the Condense's dream bubble came, right?"

"Yup. Blasted us all forward into time, and far away from Prospit. You have to be careful with those things if your Prospit isn't part of an active session. It's what causes some sessions to be futile. Her bubble came because she could never wake up on Prospit. Most of us did in death, even when we had no clue about the game. Because we're from a post-scratch era, no one had ever heard of Sgrub until the Helmsman's descendant."

"Hmm…so who did the Helmsman say was perfect for formulating a plan? I know you don't know their name, but maybe their blood color? That would help a lot."

"Yes, I know, I tried to ask him about it, but he said something about sworn to secrecy on Prospit. I don't reall—"

She's interrupted by your raucous laughter, and just stares until you calm down.

"It's Karkat!" you smile widely.

"Wait…the matesprit?"

* * *

Terezi: Wear the bandage. Be the cancer troll.

* * *

Diluted, candy red tears escape from your closed eyelids and trickle over the bridge of your nose in searing rivers. You keen like a wounded animal and curl in on yourself, seeking some modicum of shelter from the heartache threatening to overwhelm you.

"Terezi..."

A palm resting on the crown of your head strokes through your matted hair and you can hear someone murmuring a mantra of soothing words. You open your eyes and see the great void of paradox space streaming out in front of you, but your perspective of the null sky is obscured. You ache, sore and bruised, with your muscles screaming to be stretched or for the nice, soothing sopor slime of a recuperacoon. Your side throbs sullenly from where it was bound tightly to stop the flow of blood. And your head...

Actually, your head feels rather warm. You're resting against someone's leg. A thigh, to be precise. Your eyes widen, and your breath is stuttering to a halt. There's only one other person who could possibly be here with you.

"Hey, fuckass?" the term doesn't sound like it's teeming with animosity, much to your crippling disappointment. You sound drowsy and pathetically weak…who even talked you in to sleeping? You ordered yourself not to do that. But if there ever was a reason to sleep, you'd prefer it to be rebellious of past you's wishes. Current Karkat is looking pretty good right about now.

"It's okay, Karkat," he soothes absently. It sounds like a familiar, well-practiced litany. "It's okay. You'll be okay."

Damn. The bastard thinks you're still in the middle of a horrorterror. What the hell does he think he's doing?

He shooshes you when you try to talk to him again, because it comes out a garble of constants with no vowel tyranny. He paps you, because maybe you're the only one who's against vowel tyranny. He keeps up the pattern afterwards, shoohsing and papping…shooshpapping, even when you stop trying to protest. Man, are you up the belfry. You honestly don't think you'll leave the top of it anytime soon.

In a burst of strength, you push yourself away from him.

"What kind of wriggler do you take me for, fuckass?" you shout at him so loud, it reverberates against the soundless rocks littering the meteor.

Your side is smoldering again with pain, but it's dormant compared to your outright indignation. Throwing yourself against the gravel felt more than justified to prove your point. His eyes widen a bit, making it clear the message got through to him, and good thing, too. You'd hate for that stunt to have been in vain, because the white hot pain, while not sharper than your anger, is certainly a worthy adversary.

He stands up, rising to his full height, and you don't like the way he's staring down at you. There's compassion in his gaze, empathy in his shaded eyes, and there's a sprinkle of that damn understanding mixed in too. What does he think he's understanding with that sad, sad expression? You want to punch the older troll right in the jaw and watch him bleed. Maybe then you'd finally know he's Sollux's ancestor for sure.

It also bothers you how his dark shadow envelopes you, how he takes a step closer as if to miraculously cross the gap you've worked your whole life building. It's not even really a gap. It's a chasm. A chasm that he thinks is a gap, that he thinks he can cross with a running start.

As he moves closer, you scurry away as fast as you can, despite your injury. You probably look more pathetic in the heap you threw yourself in than when you were asleep in his lap, and whatever message he got when you flailed away from him, obviously wasn't enough.

You stand up with faltering strength and bring yourself into an almost-adequate fighting stance. It takes a second to realize that he has your sickles, and another to compromise using your fists. You clench them tightly, as if cocking the barrel of a gun. You aim for his jaw like you fantasized earlier and fire, but he's out of the way much faster than your arm can swing. You stagger back and try to find your footing, but the bandage that falls off your side and the blood that flows down your leg as generous as a waterfall is a bit too disconcerting. You manage to flail your fists like a mace before your knees grow weak and you sink back to the floor. He's there in an instant, that bastard, and is checking your wound while softly rebuking you. The biting urge to punch him still hasn't completely dissipated, but for now it's eclipsed by the searing pain.

Then he tries to pick you up bridal style, so you punch him straight in the face. But he doesn't give you the satisfaction of the hit with a single drop of blood. He stands still for a moment, retrieves his cane, then sets out walking.

You don't stop cursing the rest of the way.

_AN:_

_OMG what is this monstrosity. I feel do disappointed in this. But, you know. Review, if you want to. _

_(Hint: You want to.)_

_***I was reading **__**Hoshi wa Utau**_ and Saku was all "Hey, look, it's the constellation Pollux Castor!" 

_**I see what Hussie did there. **_

_***This is from last chapter, and I forgot to write the explanation. That sentence is a light hint to the "OUR L1TTL3 MOM3NT" thing.  
**_


	3. Chapter 3

The horrorterror starts the same way it always does. You're cut. By paper, by cardboard, by knife, the sharp corner of a counter, it varies. In this one, your skin just splits on its own. 'Guess your subconscious isn't feeling particularly practical today. You're standing in the veil and eleven of your friends are staring at the bright crimson that floods from the inexplicable gash on your forearm. This is a recycled horrorterror from before the game, with background and other modifications, so Terezi is one of those who don't know. Everyone bursts into squeals of high-pitched laughter, and despite your best attempts at retaining your dignity, you shrink in on yourself at such a response. You try to get away from the taunting cackles, but Vriska snags you by the back collar and holds you firmly in place, even while you struggle with all your might. You guess it's not much, though, a mutant blood's might compared to that of a cerulean's.

"So this is why you hid behind that boring gray anonymity." She giggles, "That's pretty hilarious. Gamzee, why don't you see if we can get another laugh or two out of this freak?"

Following her command, Gamzee brandishes his club and stands directly in front of your frantic form. He twists his ankle and configures the weapon like a bat in his hands before striking you straight in the jaw. More blood pours from the wound and you're knocked to the ground.

Though he had robotic legs just a second ago, Tavros is now reverted back to his wheelchair-confined self, towering over you with a foreign sense of pride.

"It hurts Rufio to know he had to follow orders from a mutant blood." He begins to run over your legs with his wheelchair, "This goes a long ways toward healing him."

Aradiabot, who was flesh-and-blood-Aradia not too long ago, bends down to your level and whispers smoothly in your ear, "Now I know why I was forced to die so many times over. It's because our leader was an incompetent freak." Her voice holds no emotion, and when you turn to look at her with pleading eyes, she's gone. Nepeta now looms over you, with a feral smile that glints like a blade in the pale light. Her claws extend, and she rips at your shirt.

"I'll take care of that pesky, gray mislabel! Gog, I can't believe I had a crush on such a lowlife!"

Equius cuts in, standing protectively in front of her as she backs off of you.

"Why were you my competition for so long?" he shouts, and you don't like the sweat that forms from the crease in his brow, "You were nothing all along, why couldn't she see that? It was so obvious!" He punches you directly where she had torn your shirt, and you cough up more of that heinous liquid.

"This is exactly why we should've disposed of the others when we had a chance!" Eridan says to Feferi. The darkened silhouettes that made a wall around you split to reveal the couple.

"You know, I used to believe that we could abolish the caste system, but I see now it's impossible with scum like him. Something has to be done." Her tyrian eyes narrow as she looks at your pitiable form.

Kanaya steps forward and your stomach locks with dread. You were fearing Kanaya's judgment far worse than the rest. You could never tell why, but she had always held some sort of power over you. You respected her efforts as far as peacemaking and how she always played the austpice while expecting nothing in return. You really did regard her with what you thought she deserved. At first you didn't like it, but you'd grown more accustomed to it and you couldn't bear to hear what she had to say, now that she knew.

But she didn't say anything, and somehow that made it a million times worse. She took out her tube of lip gloss and her face still held no emotion as it turned into a chainsaw.

A dreary chorus of monotonous "It's all your fault" sounded with your friend's hollowed voices. They were closing in on you as you turned to Sollux and reached out to him.

"As if, Karkat." He scoffs, and the fact that he's never said your full name once makes it sting as much as it makes him distant, "You're dirt, you're nothing. You ran the virus. You doomed our session. We didn't need a demon from the alien's session, we already had our own."

He seems offended you would even think that your gutter-blood could be overlooked.

You hadn't even gotten to the bad part of the dream.

"Terezi…"

* * *

Ancestor: Wake Karkat already.

* * *

When the boy comes to, and the measures you took to get him up prove fruitful, he curses you out once again, and pushes you away. You suppose you should be used to it by now, but it goes even further to distinguish the differences between you two, and that was absolutely the last thing you needed at a time like this.

The boy sleeps a lot. You don't ever remember sleeping that much. Maybe there really is something wrong with him.

You tilt your head inquisitively, because you know the notion's going to set him off like a firecracker. And when that happens, it's strangely easier to get through to him.

"What the hell are you looking at, fuckass?" he snaps. So predictable.

"Why is it you require so much sleep?"

"I don't know, because maybe I haven't slept in the past two weeks? I'm not immortal, you know."

"Oh, I know." You say slowly.

He glares at you harshly before crossing his arms and looking away. Avoiding your stare, he starts poking at his side.

"I think I can walk now." He says brusquely, the words directed in front of him instead of at you as he rises to his feet. He starts walking, ostentatiously at first, but then his steps slow and he lurches to the side, vomiting.

"Are you certain?" you ask warily, slowly rising to your feet as well. At least he managed to throw up while standing.

It takes a moment to realize what you just thought, and dish out the internal slap you deserve.

You really shouldn't be all that bad at this. As a matter of fact, you should be the best candidate out of the members of your party.

The truth is, you've known Karkat for far longer than he thinks. You know all about his adventure, and mostly everything he's gone through. You feign ignorance for conversational purposes only. Though, you must admit, there are several dark pockets in your knowledge, things the clouds of Prospit had refused to show you, but you know you should at least be making an effort towards helping him out.

In all honesty, you had no idea he was Karkat when you first met. You had known vaguely what he looked like, and were completely in the dark as far as his personality. All he had to do was wear his matesprit's shirt, and you were none the wiser. Thinking back, the matesprit-thing took you by surprise as well. Actually, there are a lot of things you still don't know. All you really knew was that he had screwed up as a leader and hated himself with such intense, unadulterated rage, that your heart went out to him, and you wanted to do something. When the Condense threatened your lunar paradise and stranded you in the veil, you thought it the perfect opportunity. Because you knew that rage, knew it all too well, but at least you had seen the light. At least you were dealing. Karkat was so far from that — _is still_ so far from that.

"Yeah." He replies tersely, continuing his trudge onward.

"You're going to wear yourself out," you warn, walking forward and resting a hand on his shoulder, "Your body needs the energy to fight off infection."

He shrugs off the gesture, "I thought that stuff you used did that."

"To some degree, but if you want it to heal, you're going to have to stop pushing yourself like this."

"How far are we away from where we're headed?"

"Far."

"How far?"

"We're only a quarter of the way there."

"Kidding me?"

You gave no reply.

"I'm still going to walk." He announces after a time.

"Why are you so set on that?" you question exasperatedly.

"Because if I do, there's no chance I'll sleep."

* * *

Be the narrator. Second person's a sycophant.

* * *

"What is that?" Redglare questions, her eyes widening at the ornate chalk drawings all decorating her respiteblock.

"Shhh…only hieroglyphics now." Terezi says, a bellowing cackle falling in step right behind her words.

"Not the way I planned on spending the morning, but I'll deal." She sighs with a smile, taking a towel to the sopor slime drenching her teal skin.

"What are we drawing?" she asks, picking up an orange piece of chalk. They had a small quarrel over the red chalk the day before, so Redglare knew to stay away from it.

"Important clues. I had a dream last night…it'll be difficult…but I think I figured out how to hijack our pre-scratch dreamselves."

"What?"

"I mean, I _know_ how, and it's inevitable that we're going to do it. See, it's all in the hieroglyphics I saw, the seemingly pointless ones with the alligators and the spyrographs? I figured out a pattern, and now I know why our original session, the first one, failed."

"Well, I never saw any hieroglyphics, so I'll take your word on that. But how did we fail?"

"We hijack their dreamselves, and use them now. In the original session, none of them ever woke up on Prospit, because there was no one there to wake up. So when one of them died on their Quest Bed, they ascended, but they were dead and could use their powers from the dead to reset the game."

"So…_we_ doomed their session?"

"Yes, but in dooming theirs, we're saving ours. It's the only way to reach success. If their session had succeeded, none of us would've ever existed. And there would be no chance to beat Lord English. But now we have strength in numbers. In full confidence, I believe that we can do it."

_AN:_

_Okay. About my absence. Most of you know the Hunger Games came out last Thursday, right? Well me and my brother snuck out to go and see it. Ten minutes in my dad calls and starts yelling and cussing us out, telling us to get our asses back to the house. So we get there, and right when the door opens, he starts clubbing for us. I mean, legit. I think he did some permanent damage to my ribcage. Though I could just be over exaggerating. Man, did that hurt. Then he grounded us for a week, and when he says grounded, he means grounded. No computer, no books, no paper, no pencils, no phone, no associating with other house members, no coming inside the house from the hours of 8:00 AM — 9:00 PM, no dinner, no leaving our property, no going into the woods on our property, no talking to the mailman, no petting the dog…And we had to sign this big contract that might as well have been the constitution saying we would follow the house rules. So we made chalk drawings outside (except they weren't drawings, they were just Regina Spektor lyrics all over our driveway) until my dad got frustrated and told us to wash it all away with the hose. For that, we were forced to do some yard work. Of course, when they were gone, we went inside and ate and did whatever we wanted, but they were home a lot that week. Oh my gosh, torture. So, sorry for the late update. _

_PS,_

_Review. O_O_


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: What even is ownership?

_Oh man, the taste of terrible fiction is still in my mouth, somebody help me._

_Why are people such colossal idiots?_

_Por que?_

* * *

"Karkat…" the ancestor says slowly, arms moving in jerky, hesitant strides, as if he can't make up his mind to power walk next to you, or stay behind to catch you if you fall. Frankly, the display is patronizing to you, and not the least bit comforting, though you somehow see that is his veiled goal. Or maybe he's trying to psyche you out. You can't read people as accurately as you'd like to believe.

"What is it your blistering bulgeface wants, fuckass?"

He seems flamboyantly undeterred by your harsh language. You hope he hasn't gone and done something crazy like build up an immunity to it, that'd be inexcusable. Your sharp tongue is the best weapon you have against this overbearing douche bag, and if that doesn't work…

He's too in your head for your liking. Or you're too paranoid for your liking. Either. Both. Neither. What are you even saying? What is he saying? You recall he said something in a very flamboyantly undeterred manner, but you can't remember a single word. And you get the eerie feeling he's still talking. It takes you a moment to realize he stopped talking, and stopped following you with his uneven steps. You turn around and see he's standing there, arms crossed, eyes closed, and a smug little smirk playing on his lips as he taps one finger against his forearm.

"Why'd you stop?" You inquire, more than a bit disconcerted at hearing how warped your voice has become. Like a freaking drink without a coaster going through all condensation on a mahogany office desk. Wait, no. That doesn't make any sense, or at least, barely salvageable sense.

He just keeps tapping his arm. The audacity.

"It's been two days. We both need some sleep."

"You can sleep. I'll keep watch."

"That's not a half-bad idea. How about we work in shifts? I'll take the first."

"Oh, that sounds — no, hey, wait a minute!" you shout, your pan finally processing what he's suggesting. Clever jerk, "If anyone's taking the first shift, then that person is unavoidably me."

"Well, if it is as unavoidable as you say…" he shrugs, "Alright."

"Wait, what?"

"First shift. You're turn. Keep watch." He says with a staccato beat.

"No, I mean, that easily? What's the catch?" you eye him dubiously.

"The catch is that I get to sleep first."

You roll your eyes as he gets himself settled on the dark, gravel path. You stumble over to him and plop down unceremoniously. You're still a long ways from falling for this scam, but you've got to decipher what his angle is first.

When your eyelids droop dangerously downwards, you think you've got your answer.

* * *

CRLR: You are suddenly the troll girl.

* * *

"So, we've got our dreamselves back?" Redglare asks, stepping away from the mass hieroglyphics decorating her quarters.

"Officially, yes. Though, there's no telling what will happen when we sleep. When we awake as them, it's very possible we may retain their memories. And, as you know, we have to share one, so we can't be sleeping at the same time."

"What happens if we do?"

"No idea…But according to your chart, how many more days until our guests of honor arrive?"

You pinch your wrist in rebuke, because you know that Redglare can smell your eagerness too well. In fact, you can smell it a lot better. And taste it, too. It's like a peppermint chocolate flavor of cotton candy, which isn't such a bad combination, if your ancestor didn't recognize what it meant.

But if she notices (which you know she does) she politely averts the conversation from steering too far awkward.

"We've got two or three more days." She says, and you can smell an emotion that differs from yours drastically. It's the taste of overly seasoned meat, covered in a superfluous amount of sea salt. It's heart-wrenching dread that is much more potent than your mere excitement, and overwhelms your system. Your vision (so to speak) swims and a fog of black fringes the edges like smoldering parchment. Despite your remarkable ability to stay composed despite any circumstances, you find yourself taking an involuntary step back, a bodily form of protest to the scent. But since she ignored your spurt of emotion, you try to return the favor, and mention that you both shouldn't worry about them falling asleep at the same time, since Karkat has been on a sleeping fast for the past two weeks. She sighs.

"You smelt that, didn't you?"

"…Yes."

"Hmm," she sighs again, resignedly, sliding against the wall and into a sitting position, "I might as well tell you before he gets here."

She pats the ground next to her, the social equivalent of pulling up a chair. You sit in the assigned spot.

"One of the last cases I ever worked on before Mindfang's was the Signless's. I was the one who sentenced him to death. In my heart, I knew it was wrong and it ate me alive. After his death, I tried so hard to live by his words, becoming an effective and dedicated follower—"

"Wait, the Signless? That's Karkat's ancestor?"

"Yes, you know of him?"

"Can't say I do."

"He was a great man who preached about his dream, his dream of a kinder Alternia, without the shackles of the hemospectrum. He was my hero, and I — I couldn't do a thing to save him. I wouldn't care if they sold me into slavery, like the Dolorosa, or killed me, like the Helmsman, but I couldn't bear to think that my empire of law would be breached, that everything I worked so hard for would be deviated, even if the entire empire itself was a deviation. I saw more value in a tilted balance than my hero's own life. I can't stress enough the shame. When we awoke on Prospit, I had close call after close call, and every time I thought of something to say to him, I ended up running away when I saw his face. What do you say to justify murder? There is nothing, murder is an unjustifiable thing! But before the dreambubble swept us away, I left my cane on his bed sheets. There's no way of knowing if he took it before it came, or if it's still there, but it felt like the right thing to give him, even if it doesn't make up for anything, but…now that he's coming here…"

"The Signless." You say brusquely, snapping your head minimally in her direction, "What were his values as far as a kinder Alternia? Forgiveness was one of them, right?"

She slowly nods her head, getting it.

"Yes, but…I'm still a bit…anxious."

"So am I, sis." You cackle softly.

"So am I."

* * *

Once your eyes tear open, and it registers that you're out of the horrorterror, you don't waste any time with words. You spring up lightning fast and have a fistful of his robe's collar to wring before he knows what hit him. His eyes go wide for a second, but soften when they rest upon your face. You reach for his hood, because at this angle, you can see his eyes, but it's far too shaded for you to discern what color they are. He smacks your hand to the side swiftly, and without betraying a single emotion.

Inside your chest, you can feel unadulterated rage ignite and burn away your clear conscious. You abandon your acumen as the white-hot, blinding animosity bombards you on all sides.

He made you relive the end of that dream. The part with Terezi.

Your nimble fingers find their way around his neck easily.

He delivers a blow straight to your stomach, causing you to release his throat. Raw obscenities pour from your mouth endlessly, distorted by the high octaves your voice discordantly reaches. It's as feral as it is loud and undecipherable to the ancestor's ears, but you couldn't care less if he understood the very real threats you've made to his person, you just want him to get the message that you aren't taking anymore of his crap. You are never sleeping again. Never. Ever. Ever.

You punch him repeatedly in the stomach, still shouting like a petulant wriggler, and he surprisingly lets you. As you try your best to kill him, he stands there and takes it, lest your hands wander to his hood, then he gently pushes them away. You don't get him. You don't get anything. You just want to hit him, with quality and quantity. You just want retribution, but no matter how hard you punch him, you don't feel any better. You sink to your knees, but you don't, for the life of you, stop aiming your fists at him. He sits down, ever-politely, so you can get a better angle at his chest. Your punches are getting more and more sporadic, but stronger with every hit, and your shouts are doing the same thing. Your throat is getting tight, and there's an awful lot of tension inside you, all built up in different places, just ready to blow. You hit him one last time with all your might, just for good measure, which is heralded by your loudest scream, before your head comes to rest where you him. There are no longer obscenities ripping from your tongue, but rather sobs lodged in your throat that dislodge dangerously. You dig your claws into the fabric of his robe and warm tears slither out from your eyes in a thick, disgusting red.

He's surprised at first, but quickly recovers. You feel his hand at your back, rubbing comforting circles and his gentle, commanding voice is whispering condolences. You hate him.

You hate him.

You _hate_ him.

You _**hate**_him!

You wrap your arms around him and indulge in whatever comfort he offers. Pathetically, you soak it up with growing fear and desperation.

You're just a messed up kid and no one understands.

_AN:_

_What._

_(Review or Karkat dies.) _


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Yes, but can Terezi see why kids love Cinnamon Toast Crunch?

_Consider my shit thoroughly flipped. Good readers, I have just discovered that this heinous rambling of a story has been read by the maker of "askthecancerousduo" on tumblr. _

_ASDFGHJKL; I feel like Hussie discovering Dante Basco was reading Homestuck except I'm don't know what it feels like to be Hussie and I certainly don't want to know. ASDFGHJK; OH MY GLOB. If you don't know of "askthecancerousduo," you should pretend you knew all along to prevent yourself from looking like a tool and go check it out. _

_That is all. Xirg out. _

"Well, well," a smooth tenor whispers, "look what we have here!"

Her voice is still perfectly calm and under control, though she slips and excitement shows clean through. That's a bad sign. You know for certain whose ancestor this is and you know her entertainment is another's pain. You scurry desperately backwards, but your long horns catch on the rocky walls of the meteoric cavern and there's a dead end behind you.

"Oh, don't be frightened little Summoner, I don't bite." She smiles a smile that accentuates her fangs and aristocratic cerulean lips.

"Much." She adds, whisking away into a deep chuckle as she grabs your hand and drags you in a different direction.

* * *

The two of you have been traveling in silence for a while now, but you can see he's poking at the beginnings of conversation; opening his mouth as if he's going to say something, then closing it and humming, making noises that masquerade as words. It's clear he has no idea what to do with you. Well, that's fair, because you have no idea what to do with him. You're both just wandering among shadows and checking angles, waiting for the other to make the first move. No matter how much you hate his guts, he did help you recover from your little episode back there, and maybe you could do him a favor just this one time.

"If you're going to say something, let it fucking out of your proteinchute before it commits suicide! Sometimes silence is even worse than your nails-on-chalk-board squeal."

He recognizes the insult for what it is, settling into one of those unnervingly empathic smiles, and walks a tad closer to you. It's almost indecipherable, really, but you're an observant young troll. You don't want him getting _too_ familiar here.

"If you want to talk about what happened in your horrorterror, you're always welcome."

The words strike your ears like the barbarous mallet awaking the sound of a grand church bell. A feeling of absolute disgust lances through you, showing painfully through your eyes, in an act that is almost throbbing with heartache. You want him away, far away, a need as urgent as it is potentially violent, but you have no idea how. You can't deal with this right now, you just can't, not with him — not with anyone, but especially not with him. The requisite desire is practically adrenaline setting matches to your veins, spinning your vision, disorientating you fully and effectively. You manage to give him one last, harsh, accusing glare before sprinting ahead with reckless abandon. Escape. You need escape far more than comfort, its value, tenfold, because escape is a comfort, but comfort isn't an escape. Not by a long shot and not by your definition. You can't hear his footsteps anymore, can't even see him if you turn around and squint at the flat horizon, so you crash to the floor, eagle-spread on your back. Your percussion heart is spinning a tune of temporary relief, crying out in thanks to whatever higher power chanced upon its withering existence. It slows down and steadies as you breathe deeply.

Terezi.

Terezi would never do that, you know she wouldn't, but your encumbering subconscious is a powerful thing, always in your head and whatnot. You can run, but you can't escape the look on her face. You can't escape yourself, despite what illusions you may construct. For a moment, you just lay there and breathe deeply, as if drinking in air, long after your desperate panting dissipates.

His footfalls become audible, and then proceed to thunder in your ears because you can perceive the vibrations better from the ground and fuck he's getting closer. But the ancestor is an unpredictable man and always manages to surprise you. He just keeps walking without acknowledging your presence.

You can't believe it at first, but you know he has his angle. Now that you're not completely sleep-deprived, you suppose he wants you to get up and follow him. But you're not going to. You're done abiding by his wants. He doesn't own you. He's realizing this, you believe, as his footsteps become slower, allowing you more time to catch up with him. You don't move. He doesn't stop. Now it's just a matter of who caves first. It's an interesting game you two play, the absence of motion and the abundance of it, and you can appreciate it for a moment because it's effective in getting your mind away from other things.

He stops in defeat and you take a rare, celebratory smile at the victory. It's just a battle and you haven't won the war yet, but it still feels good. He walks back slowly and stops once he comes to stand over you. He bends down a bit and offers a hand, but you still don't move, or even acknowledge his presence. He sighs, and flops down on the ground next to you.

"I'm sorry."

You don't respond outside of a low growl.

"I guess you're a lot better off than I am, not telling anyone about your dreams. I was a little overeager on that one; it's what got me killed. But I suppose it's fitting, too, because I'd rather die an early and painful death living that way, than live forever without letting a single person in. I can't imagine your loneliness, Karkat, I know it's far worse than searing chains, what you're going through. Or maybe it's like searing chains, in a sense, searing chains that you have bound yourself to. I know it's not easy, but maybe one day you'll take them off. Maybe one day you'll actually breathe, actually love beyond degree of pity, actually step out from your shadow and be who you were meant to be, but that is entirely up to you. The way you ran away from me — is that how you want to live, wallowing in fear of getting too close all your days?"

His words are harsh and rattle around in your head as echoes long after he has gotten up. He begins walking again and you run to catch up with him, once the epiphany dawns.

Well, with battles, you just can't win them all.

* * *

The tower looming on the horizon is the most beautiful sight you have seen in centuries. You've been walking for days, carrying a descendant half the way, and using too much of your psychic powers than would be advisable.

"I'm sorry." The descendant repeats for the tenth time that morning. She's still clearly a bit out of it, but you don't blame her. She just woke up from a soporless sleep and probably visualized everything you were put through.

"It's fine, Feferi." You reiterate, "It's not your fault. I'm sure that if you were in her position, you would've done differently."

Man, you've got to change the subject.

"Why don't you tell me about your friends? We can compare notes, in a sense."

"Well, I already know about Terezi and Vriska's because of their FLARPing, but, um, what about Aradia? She has maroon blood, if that helps any."

You stop abruptly.

"The Handmaid. I don't know much of what she did in life, but in death…"

The memory of your time on Derse with her flashes through your enhanced mind and elicits a smile. As your dreamself — or in your special case, dreamselves — you lived two different lives. One on Prospit, and one on Derse. On Prospit you spent most of your time with the Summoner and the Signless, and on Derse…

You really enjoyed your time on Derse.

"Okay, okay, what about Tavros? The one with the long horns?"

"Quite the adventurous spirit, that Summoner. He was another good friend of mine in death. May I ask you those who I know?"

"Of course!"

"The redblood?"

"Um, I thought I already said Aradia."

"No, not maroon. A brighter red."

"There is none."

"Yes, I know, it's a mutation and I'm certain a member of your party has it."

"Maybe whoever in your session you thought had red blood lied. Like Karkat."

"Kar who?"

"Car," she latches her hands around an invisible steering wheel, then makes feline ears with her fingers, "cat."

"Well, I'm pretty sure he didn't lie about it. He was killed for it."

"That's terrible!"

"Or should I say, he was killed for not hiding it. For fighting them, preaching that their ways were wrong. He was a remarkable moirail, I hope there wasn't a problem in your session that only made one Signless. He would've been thrilled to meet his descendant."

It takes you a moment to realize she stopped walking.

"Feferi?"

"I-i-it's…Karkat has red blood?"

You frown. You suppose you shouldn't blame her, though. Propaganda is a powerful thing.

"Does it perturb you? Do you think differently about your friend now?"

"I think…" she shakes her head, then stares him dead in the eye with a piercing look, "I do think differently, but that's not…necessarily a bad thing. I understand now, why he is the way he is. I think...that I want to help."

_AN:_

_Right when Feferi heard "Preaching that their ways were wrong" BAM! Flushcrush. Because Feferi was the one from the alpha session with that ambition, you know, so..._

_(I don't ship that, though, just a funny thought. Oh, and review or the gallows.) _


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Whatever.

_It was 4:13 when I decided to write this chapter. :|_

**Curlyraye**_. You read my story. O_O This chapter's for you._

_Oh, yeah, and sorry for the hiatus. So many school projects, and I'm doing all the work for the majority of them. This one's a terrible shorty.  
_

* * *

"What the hell was that shit I just had the gut-wrenching displeasure of swallowing whole?" you inquire caustically.

"A vital nutrient source for sustaining life? What I just spent tireless hours trying to locate?" He crosses his arms as the two of you traverse the gravelly terrain.

"What exactly is tireless, by your standards? This taste like absolute filth deep-friend in Arthour's fuck-milk."

"Arthour's a friend of yours?" he snorts, "Charming. I wonder what you say about me behind my back."

"He's my friend's lusus, you ignorant pile of proteinchute exertion. And I don't say anything behind your back, there's no one else we've seen for miles! Even if there was, I'd say it loud enough for the both of you hear." You add hastily, "I've got nothing to hide."

"Mhmm. Says the boy too afraid to talk about his own dream."

"I—" Your whole face chokes up and blood rushes through your ears as a violent roar of resistance. The mere word shuts you down utterly, as fragments are brought to the surface, and deep trepidations you've ignored successfully thus far are revisited. There's an overwhelming sensation that knocks your breath away as effectively as if you've been socked in the stomach. You stop in your tracks.

"My apologies," he says as he walks back to where you're standing, "but it has to come out sometime. We've avoided sleep for a couple days now, and this just isn't working. I don't know about you, but I'm dead tired."

"Yeah, you don't know about me…!" you try to make your retort as saucy as possible while attempting to catch your breath and fight the images swarming your mind, but it's just too dry. It seems everything's been that way lately. You try to yell, but it comes out as a whisper. You try to act lofty, but you end up acting desperate. You try to sound brave, but you come across as scared. You try your best to be angry, but it's evident you're too tired to make that charade. You're hanging on by a thread, and this idiot can't take the hint.

He raises a single, inquisitive eyebrow, but doesn't question your outburst further. He waits, ever the master of patience, for you to regain whatever modicum of composure you have left. You stand up straighter, finagle the collar of Terezi's ill-fitting shirt, and start right up again. He sighs and follows suit.

After a while, the silence is positively unnerving. There hasn't been so much as the footfall of an imp or the beat of a butterbeast's wing in ages. You know the Veil has refugees of several different species, some from your planet, some you've seen on Earth, and some you can't put a place to, so the absence of sound is even more suspicious. You can't see any of the wild life either, while, underneath the rocks, it should be teeming with—

"What the hell is that." You ask without inquisition.

The path you were walking along is blockaded by boulders, and from the tallest one, emerges an orb of electric blue emanating with gold. Like a balloon cut off from restraining string, it floats carelessly into the air. It's small, hardly the size of a grapefruit, but soon there are more joining in the flight. The first one stops about ten feet up, and the top of it flattens as the air above it rings out with glimmering, purple dust, illuminating an invisible box-like force-field. The ancestor unsheathes his staff and knocks the air to his left. It strikes the force-field and elicits a swell of amethyst throughout the ethereal structure. He gives you a meaningful look as you brandish your sickles and the two of you swat at the orbs in a synchronized fashion. They react just like a balloon would, save for the separate notes they produce when hit. As you both strike them, they make a bouncing, haphazard symphony. To be honest, this challenge presents itself as the pick-me-up you've needed for so long, and, despite yourself, you can't stop the giggle from leaving your lips.

It's a bubbly laugh, as light and airy as the orb's makeshift melody, one you never knew you were even capable of. It knows no fear, or heartache, or blame. It's truly a divine sound, like that of a plucked harp accompanying an angel's voice, and the orbs stop bouncing at the sound of it. That could be because you and your reluctant partner stop swinging out of shock, but, nonetheless, your surprisingly melodious outburst is the main cause.

All in all, it's a purely naïve thing you can't believe you let graze your tongue. You wish you could take it back, rewind time and shove it right back down your throat, where the worst it can do is tickle you unnoticeably. You expect him to mock you for it, or say something infuriating once more, asking what's so funny with a flippant aftertaste. But instead, he joins in on the chorus that makes of your laugh and the orbs. He roars with deep jubilance, an odd sound that has a somewhat authoritative ring to it; a laugh with purpose, you suppose that's what it is. You honestly can't help yourself, and start giggling as brazenly as Terezi when playing with crimson chalk. It lasts longer now that you know the ancestor has no qualms against it, like a 4/4 time finally being composed with all four, fulfilling beats. He throws his head back and bellows a quacking chortle that could pass for smooth jazz. Yours sounds more like a violin or the far right, ivory keys of a grand piano wavering after the thrilling climax of a decrescendo. The orbs are the tenor meshed between the two of you, creating a silky harmony between baritone and alto. The grand orchestra is in full swing now, and is too much to bear standing up, so you both fall to the ground on your backs, hoping that it would be a better suitor to support the tufts of laughter racking your prone forms. Tears are blurring your vision, and catching on your eyelashes as you blink. The whole sky is obscured, just streaks of varying shades of darkness to your consumed mind.

"I…I think…" you manage to get out, still the epitome of uncontrollable mirth as you giggle onward, after all, humor still has his baton raised.

"…that the game isn't done with us yet?" the ancestor, still fighting free from the jubilance overtaking his free speech, concludes.

Miraculously, you just smile and nod.

* * *

"Hey, Redglare. What are those things outside?"

_AN:_

_Can anyone tell I'm a music student?  
_


	7. Chapter 7

"Can I see him now?" Terezi asked for what could seem the millionth time, picking at her dinner with disdain.

"I…I don't think that's the best thing for him at the moment." Redglare replied softly.

"Can you at least tell me what happened?"

"Maybe it's best you hear it from him."

"How can I when you two don't even let me near his respiteblock?"

Redglare's eyes flickered to the Sufferer, then back to her descendent.

"This is a delicate time for Karkat, he needs a bit of time to recover from…what's happened."

She smells the looks they're sending each other and sighs, putting her fork down and ending the spar with her alchemized food.

"Well, I suppose that's understandable. Some recovery time is necessary, what with all," she tilted her head up at them, "he's been through. Though, you know, to be perfectly honest, I feel like there's still something you're trying to hide from me. Unsuccessfully, I might note." She smiled widely through a sip of water.

They shared uneasy glances, causing her smile to grow wildly out of proportion.

"The great Sufferer, a monumental leader, successful in accumulating millions of followers and almost overthrowing the entire Alternian government. Such a noble troll who taught righteous values surely isn't proving hypocritical by lying to a poor blind girl."

He leaned forward and began to say something, but Redglare moved her arm to intercept him.

"Terezi Pyrope," she began, "a promising young pupil of the law, successful in surviving SGRUB and almost winning the ultimate reward. Such a talented young troll who's proved her skills on par with my own surely isn't dashing all the hope I entrusted her by resorting to bluffing and mudslinging."

There was a long pause. Terezi got up and pushed her chair in before absconding to her respiteblock without a word. Not even a sarcastically polite "If you would excuse me."

The Signless smacked her on the back, "Way to go, Red. You should've let me handle that."

"And what would you have done? Told her everything?"

"Maybe I should have. The boy is struggling to keep living, the girl is confused, and I'm guessing a bit scared. And we still have no idea to do with our guest and —"

"Shhhh! Do you want the whole Tower to hear you?" She waited a moment before whispering, "Well, if you're going to decide to play Mr. Honest, you're going to have to be completely honest, there's no half way. I'm fine with telling them the truth, I've got nothing to hide. You on the other hand…you haven't even told him who you are."

"I can't. I've known from the very beginning that I just can't."

"And why not?"

"Karkat Vantas harbors an inextinguishable animosity for any versions of himself, no matter past, present, or future, and that includes ancestral versions too. And he trusts me now. Do you know how rare that occurs? I can't do something to ruin that."

"You know you can't keep it from him forever. Terezi doesn't know it's a secret. She could let it slip, or I could, or you could. Even the almighty Sufferer makes mistakes sometimes."

"Yeah, well, he can't afford to this time. Too many things hang in the balance."

_AN:_

_Casually publishes teaser chapter._


	8. Chapter 8

_This takes place before the last chapter, just in case anyone's confused._

* * *

It's dark, wherever you are. The seat of your pants is something convulsing and twitching, damp and disgusting as it slithers around and over you, its tyrian purple tendrils emitting a file fluid across the span of your shoulders. A couple teeth of yours are missing; you know because when you run your tongue across the roof of your mouth, most of what you can feel are gums tinted a sickly yellow color. A faint buzzing erupts in the left side of your head, and your vision clears a bit. You're wearing Feferi's goggles, but you don't ever remember putting them on. They're badly fogged, and you can't see a single thing out of them.

"Hello," purrs a deep falsetto voice, "how's my favorite descendant doing?"

"Who…"

"Am I? Well, that's simple. I'm surprised you forgot, it's such an easy thing to remember, considering the similarities to our positions. A _batter_y for a _batter_witch."

Those weren't Feferi's goggles.

* * *

The ventilation system is oddly large, large enough for you to walk through with your shoulders rolled back and your head raised high. You assume it has to be this cavernous to be able to distribute the resources necessary for her many breeding experiments. Whatever the reason, it makes breaking in all the more convenient. Of course, the Darkleer and the Handmaid have to crouch a bit, but you and Nepeta are fine. The Darkleer gives a brief nod to your ancestor before taking a left where you and the rest of your party stay straight. Nepeta takes the next right. You and the Handmaid reach the end of the shaft, where your entry is barred. A swift kick to the bolted obstacle eliminates that problem. You descend upon the throne room, where the Darkleer, Nepeta, and Equius, who had been waiting so patiently outside for the duration of the invasion, are battling the Condense tooth and nail, clean fires of rage igniting their fists. The Handmaid manages to surprise the Condense, the metallic clatter heralding your entry is lost on her as she is giving her undiluted attention toward the band of renegades. If you were paying attention to the main fight, you would've given a low whistle at the kick to the face your ancestor just delivered. However, you're not, your thoughts aren't on the Condense, but they do lie in close proximity. The beaten boy, covered in a sallow yellow is where your omnipresent concerns have lied for as long as you had known him. It's not a big surprise to yourself, or to anyone present, for that matter, that you run toward him first.

"…AA?" he asked shakily, mind still not wrapped around the possibility that you're actually there.

You give him a tight squeeze and he sputters with a light smile, "Ow, take it easy."

"Hmm." A primitive noise is all you can manage as you help him to his feet.

The two of you run in the complete other direction. The rest will follow you out, but you two have a job to do that is crucial to your escape

* * *

It's taken hours, but you've finally figured out the orb's code. Upon completion, the force field solidifies into iron and the entire structure is turned into a ten-foot-tall elevator that delves into the ground, shaking loose rocks and dirt free of their precarious position. The sound makes you miss the orbs and both of you have to cover your ears to prevent bleeding. Thankfully, it stops soon enough and one wall of the metallic box fizzes out of existence, making an efficient exit. The two of you take hesitant steps out of the elevator, your heels clacking on the smooth flooring. The place you're in looks awfully similar to the ectobiology lab, but instead of various tubes and machines you had no idea how to actually work, there was only one large glass column filled with slime. Through the thick substance, a grey hand is barely visible.

"Hey, what's this?" you inquire as you round the cylindrical glass to the other side. He walks behind you, and when he sees what you're looking at, his expression goes from curious to anguish in 0 to 5.

"No." he says quietly.

"Hey, are you alri—"

"Shut up!" he shouts, then addressing no one in particular, "Who gave the mutant the permission to speak?"

His reaction strikes you as bizarre, but he's been putting up with the same kind of stuff from you, so you suppose you can return the favor.

"You knew her didn't you?"

"She was a Derse dreamer, so I never got the chance to see her after we died. She should've been my first priority when I got here, not some ungrateful kid. Why didn't I go looking for her? What the fuck is wrong with me?" he punched the wall in pure rage and elicited a surprisingly big dent from the block of concrete.

"Hey, listen, we found her now, there must be something we can do to—"

"Go."

"What?"

"Get away from me!"

"Look, we _found her_—"

"She's GONE, okay? She's GONE, her spirit's GONE, I can't feel her anymore, I let her die ju—"

"It'll be okay, ju—"

"IT WILL NEVER BE OKAY." He shouts as he rounds on you and physically sends you spinning with his own two hands.

You land on the ground in an unceremonious heap. You slowly bring your hand to your cheek, where blood pours down from your nose, and where your busted lip broadcasts your heinous blood for all to see. A diluted version of the bright, bright red pools in your vacant, uncomprehending eyes.

It _hurts_.

You look up at the ancestor, his face contorted from a sad, sympathetic smile to a feral scowl with barred teeth.

You dart out toward the next threshold, running like a bat out of hell.

* * *

You are the Signless and you've managed to not only lose your precious Disciple, but also your charge who you thought you were making progress with. Also, he's got all kinds of things wrong with him, so many wounds, and he's on maybe four hour sleep. You're anger has changed to deep melancholy, and you stare at the charred remains of your beautiful, beautiful Disciple before deciding that Karkat is still alive and still needs your help. The poor kid, you probably scared him to death.

You set off down the hallway, looking for your descendent.

_AN:_

_You can thank all those Anons on my tumblr for this chapter. Even the one that yelled at me. Also, for those of you who are on tumblr more than FF, if you follow me, I link updates on there and answer questions. Also, someone asked me to do a book review of The Fault in Our Stars, so I will be posting that soon. Vantilene out. (You get bonus points if you ask off anon cause I'm afraid all the anons are the same person and it's drIVING ME INSANE.)_


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